Abandon My Sinking Ship

The guy to my left clears his throat. “You’re a Michelin chef’s nightmare,” he states matter-of-factly without any hesitation.

Why does he feel obligated to speak to me? Maybe if I act like I didn’t hear him, he’ll get the hint that I don’t care because I didn’t solicit his opinion. I remove my Kindle from its protective sleeve.

“Do you always order your meals so—” he stops and waves his hands in the air—“bland?” he spits out.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly while counting to ten. This time, I just can’t hold my tongue. He is two seats from me, and I am sure he can find another woman to annoy this evening. I turn toward him. “Are you speaking to me?” I calmly ask without any emotion in my voice as I meet his eyes.

“Did you know that you’re a Michelin chef’s nightmare?” he says again.

“This is not a Michelin star restaurant.” I refuse to give him my attention. I place my glasses on my face and turn on my Kindle.

“Have you ever been to a Michelin star restaurant?” he continues, even though he knows I’m trying to ignore him.

This time the obnoxious guy takes a sip from his glass and repositions his knees toward me. I try not to look at his man gap. It’s as if men believe they need to spread their legs so far apart to let their balls and cock have a view. I am not inviting any socialization from this guy or his man gap. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a designer polo shirt; his ship medallion is on his wrist. I wonder how many drinks he’s had between the ship bar and this bar. I can smell the whiskey on his breath as he speaks.

“I wonder if the chef would ask you to leave.” The stranger gives a combination laugh and grunt. “I mean if we were at a Michelin star restaurant,” he clarifies.